


Variations on love

by lagaydugevaudan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, M/M, Martin is also asexual in this, also jon's autistic in this because everyone i write is autistic, basically jon learns how to navigate his sexuality!, discussion of asexuality, discussion of sex, he's written as ace and grayro in here, not graphic but it's there, uh...hmm, what do you mean tma is a horror podcast, with a side of angst every now and then!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 14:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagaydugevaudan/pseuds/lagaydugevaudan
Summary: Jon tries the sex thing. He tries in high school with a boy he thinks he likes, all dark brown curls and pretty smiles. As far as said boy is concerned, it’s pretty nice, but Jon spends the next day locked in his room, drifting in and out of a panic attack, trying to forget how wrong it had felt. But that’s how sex in high school goes, right? You do it with the wrong person, at the wrong time, it’s bad and messy and awkward, and you’ll laugh about it in a few years.An exploration of Jon's feelings about and relationship with his asexuality, and his romantic attraction. Jonmartin centric.





	Variations on love

Jon tries the sex thing. He tries in high school with a boy he thinks he likes, all dark brown curls and pretty smiles. As far as said boy is concerned, it’s pretty nice, but Jon spends the next day locked in his room, drifting in and out of a panic attack, trying to forget how wrong it had felt. But that’s how sex in high school goes, right? You do it with the wrong person, at the wrong time, it’s bad and messy and awkward, and you’ll laugh about it in a few years.

Except Jon is the wrong person.

He tries it again in college, with his first—and only—girlfriend Georgie. They’ve been dating for a few months—although Jon hesitates at calling it dating since it mostly consists in watching bad horror movies and sneaking into abandoned buildings—and, between two loud mouthfuls of flaming hot cheetos, Georgie says she wants more out of the relationship.

“I think I'd like to have sex with you.” is how she puts it, and although the thought of it makes him wildly uncomfortable, Jon is grateful to her for spelling out in a way he is sure not to misinterpret.

He says yes, and he even manages to convince himself that he wants this too, that this is  _ Georgie _ , dammit, funny, smart, beautiful Georgie, Georgie who’d somehow chosen to date him , who never makes fun of him for not getting a joke or getting overwhelmed by loud noises. If Georgie isn’t the one, nobody is ever going to be, he thinks.

The relief Jon feels after the breakup—when they can be friends again, when the tension between them every time their hands brush and he can hug her without feeling his stomach drop—is overshadowed by his guilt at wasting her time. She wasn’t the one. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He gets a job at the Magnus Institute a year after graduating from Oxford, and the thought of spending his life buried in research, with no time for outside relationships or, god forbid,  _ dating… _ It makes everything easier, even more so when he’s promoted to head archivist. He just doesn’t have time to date, tells Georgie, he’s too busy with… Well, lately, worms.

Georgie has her own ghosts to deal with—literally, her podcast is being very well received and is starting to gain traction outside of the ghost-hunting community, so she doesn’t have much time for relationships either. They meet up every now and then, catch up over a cup of hot tea and, in Georgie's case, a diverse selection of pastries that range from "French" to "Just Bizarre", with the occasional "They Definitely Got The Ingredients Wrong, Right?".

Then comes the worm attack, a few months of intense paranoia—Jon still isn’t sure if that had been entirely the work of the entity he now knows watched over the institute, or if he’s just that much of a paranoid mess—the reveal of Gertrude’s murder…

 

And Martin.

He’s used to Martin fading into the background, they haven’t seen each other much in the year Jon spent working in research—save for the occasional mandatory office party—and he isn’t exactly the most outgoing person. Neither one of them are. Jon doesn’t make an effort to talk to anyone at work, but he can tell you about Tim’s impressive dating history and his last kayaking trip, or Sasha’s dog who just had babies and aren’t they just the sweetest?

(They are, as a matter of fact, the sweetest, even if Jon is more of a cat person.)

But Martin… He isn’t even sure Martin has a  _ life _ outside the archives.

Not that Jon can claim any better. He’s pretty sure his neighbours think he moved out, given how many nights he spends working overtime for no other reason that his thirst for knowledge.

Now that Martin has moved into the Archives permanently, though, Jon is beginning to see him.

A habit of carrying too many books at once that leads him to tripping and dropping them on the regular, his extensive collection of graphic socks—Jon particularly likes the otter print—the way his hair falls in front of his face when he’s reading and he never notices, a warm cup of tea left on his desk when he’s struggling with a case...

Jon is holding that cup of tea, sipping quietly and resting his eyes. He realizes he’s been smiling and quickly schools his expression into a stern workplace-appropriate frown. God forbid anyone catch him looking content. The day has been relatively calm so far and he does not intend to jinx it.

He was and thinking of Martin. His mind grabs onto that thought. Why had he been smiling? The tea isn’t that good, it comes from the vending machine down the hall, and it’s been transferred into a cup because Martin is…

He frowns deeper. Martin, again. He can’t have been smiling about Martin, obviously, the man is nice but he’s a pain, even now that he’s beginning to be slightly competent at his job.

Somewhat competent.

Alright,  _ mostly _ competent, but that’s about as far as Jon is willing to go. He has standards, after all, and Tim is objectively better at—

Then Martin walks by his office and Jon loses his train of thought. He’s carrying a tray of teacups, and looks quite absorbed by his task, a small drop of sweat beading on his temple as he focuses on, Jon assumes, not dropping the tray and spilling tea everywhere. Or maybe the AC’s just broken again. Jon smiles despite himself and his heart misses a beat when Martin’s eyes flick over to him, through the thick soundproof window of his office.

Jon does what any sensible adult would have done in the situation. Which is to say he gives a panicked yelp and falls crashing to the ground, losing balance on the wheels of his chair. He curses and covered his face with his arms.

_ Don’t come in don’t come in don’t come in— _

The door creaks open— _ dammit _ —and Martin walks in, looking characteristically sheepish and confused, still balancing the tray with the hand that isn’t holding the door.

"Jon, are you—oh. Wow."

Jon grunts. “This was a conscious decision.” He tries to get up but can’t quite manage to do so without rolling over, and he’s not about to make himself look like more of a fool that he already did.

Martin snorts. “God, let me—let me help you up.” he puts the tray down on the desk (Jon cringes, hoping nothing spills on the statements) and offers Jon a hand.

Jon takes it, rolling his eyes, and lets himself be pulled up, ignoring the jolt of electricity that goes through his fingers when their hands touch—it would have been the same with anyone, he thinks. Not enough human contact. He takes a moment to steady himself and leans back against his desk to put some distance between himself and Martin, who appears to be trying to stifle a laugh.

A warm, unfamiliar feeling floods Jon’s chest as he stares at the small wrinkles in the corner of Martin's eyes when he smiles. The word his mind tries to supply is  _ cute _ , and he quickly tries to repress the feeling, without success. Damn those freckles, what use does one man have for that many freckles?

“Uh… Jon?”

_ Dammit, focus, now’s not the time to _ —and the way his hair curls against his cheek— _ he has to pull himself together. _

“Right. Thank you, Martin, I was just…”

“Distracted by my wicked good looks?” Martin supplies.

Jon makes a sound he hoped is more dignified than how he feels, and coughs, trying to ignore the fact warmth spreading to his face. “I— _ Martin! _ ”

Martin flushes and his hands fly to his mouth. “Oh god I. sorry I... Don't know why I said that, that was completely—completely inappropriate.” He starts backing out of the room.

“Wait, Martin,” Jon says, and kicks himself for drawing out the interaction further. Clearly, the best course of action is to continue talking to the source of the heat in his chest, and make everything even more awkward. And inappropriate.

Martin freezes like. Well, like a deer in the headlights, the door half-open, hands fisted at his sides. He blinks.

“Your… You forgot your tea.”

Martin blinks again, walks back up to Jon’s desk—the door slams shut and Jon cringes—and gingerly picks up the tray. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

Jon scratches the back of his neck, trying to avoid thinking about the places where the skin isn’t quite smooth, the small scars of—he’s spiralling. “I, uh.” eloquent as always. Making great use of the english major, he chides himself. “I didn’t, uh. Mind.”

Martin cocks his head to the side a little, and Jon couldn’t help but notice how much he looks like a puppy. A sickeningly cute, nervous, freckled puppy. “You. Didn’t mind…?” He’s hovering at the door now, unsure.

“The. God, the joke. I didn’t mind, you don’t have to apologize.” he’s sure he’s visibly blushing by now, and that only contributes to making him more embarrassed. A tape recorder clicks on in the background and Jon would laugh if he didn't feel like he was dying of heatstroke because of an awkward interaction with a coworker.

Martin frowns a bit. “You didn’t? Then why are you—” he cuts himself off and his eyes widen. “Oh. Ooooh.”

“No, that’s not what I—” His ears feel like they were going to burn off now and he’s making a point to look anywhere in the room that isn’t Martin. They fall on the chair he fell off of, still on the floor, the wheels tangled in a mess of cables. He crouches down to untangle them—anything to occupy his hands so stops fidgeting nervously. Typical, he thinks. The one time he brings a computer to the Archives, he just has to mess up the cable.

“Jon, do you—”

Jon grunts, and shoves his face in his hands, abandoning the chair. “Please don’t say it—”

“Do you like me?” he sounds positively baffled.

“ Martin ,” Jon half-growls, the warmth in his chest souring to shame.

“Because, if, if you do—and I don’t want to assume—” he’s rambling, and Jon dares a glance in his direction. He looks about as red as Jon feels, which is a relief, he thinks. At least the situation seems to be tedious for him too. Maybe the Usher Foundation is hiring. He could move to the US, leave all of this behind him, maybe get a few cats... “I wouldn’t. Mind? I would actually be. Quite happy? Um. If you did. Like me, that is.” he trails off.

Jon blinks, and parses the words.

Oh

The thing is, he isn’t sure he  _ doesn’t _ like Martin, which is… Well, it’s disconcerting, for one, given that he’d like to think he’s better at understanding his own feelings than, say, realizing over a year after he met Martin that he’s actually very attractive and he’d very much like to know what his hands feel like on his. 

“Jon, you’re scaring me a bit.” Martin says, voice tense.

Jon realizes he’s been staring into space and—oh  _ Christ _ he’s being an arse now, isn’t he? He created this situation and now he’s just letting Martin stew in it.

He mumbles a response, the lower part of his face tucked into his sweater, hoping Martin doesn’t hear and hoping he hears all the same.

“Um. I didn’t catch that, could you—”

“ _ Maybe _ . A bit.” Jon mutters, pulling the sweater away from his face just enough for sound to come through.

Martin seems to relax a bit, but the tension is still there, and the flush of his cheeks is definitely not fading. “Great! That’s uh, that’s great. Me too? I. I like you.” he pauses. “Well I’ll. leave you to it?”

When Jon gives no answer, he adds a little “right-o.” before finally letting the door close behind himself—softening the slam with his free arm, thankfully.

Jon slides to the ground—he’s been crouching for most of their conversation, which is almost more mortifying than, well, the subject of said conversation. Of course it’d be Martin , he thinks. He clicks the tape recorder off and rubs his temples. 

About an hour later, when Jon is finally feeling like himself enough to start reading statements again, a small knock comes on the door.

“Mmh?” he calls, not even bothering to turn the tape recorder off—it’ll just turn itself back on if Whatever Was Listening thinks the conversation is interesting, apparently.

In walks Martin, predictably, since Jon is apparently just having one of those days. He’s still flushed, a dark purple creeping up from the neckline of his shirt.

In an effort to appear entirely in control of himself and the situation, Jon nods at him. “What is it, Martin?” There, that wasn’t so hard.

Martin fidgets with the sheets of paper he’s holding in his hands. A statement, no doubt, something Elias wants Jon to read. Jon has started playing a game with himself called 'can I guess if this is about spiders before reading it?'. He’s either getting better at it, or Elias is sending him more and more spider-related statements. Arsehole.

“I was wondering if you. Uh.” Martin pauses. “Please tell me if this is too forward, I know you don’t really do this, but—” he cuts himself off, seeing Jon’s patience thinning. He takes a deep breath. “ Wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme ?”

Jon blinks. “Can you repeat that, intelligibly?”

“God, Jon, please don’t make me say it again—”

“Those weren't  _ words _ , Martin.”

Martin's hands tighten on the pages. “Would. Would you like to go on a date. With me? Maybe?” saying the words out loud seemingly takes a lot out of him, his shoulders slumping as soon as it’s out, and he lets out a shaky breath, hands still gripping the papers for dear life.

Then Jon processes the words. A date. A  _ date _ . Has Jon ever been on a date before? Definitely not with Georgie, and not since then. Oh god, Jon is twenty-eight and he’s never been on a date before.

“I—” he looks at Martin’s expectant, open, ever-nervous face and feels the warmth on his chest again. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I would like that.”

Only after Martin leaves does Jon realize that they didn’t set a time or a location for the date. God, this is a headache. Since when does Jon even  _ get _ crushes, anyway? Is this even a crush? Did he just react to Martin's obvious infatuation—oh, that was something he wasn’t aware he knew—and responded with what he thought was the appropriate reaction of someone capable of normal feelings?

He’s spiralling again, he thinks, and he settles his mind back on the statement Martin handed.

"Statement of Sarah Higgins, regarding an encounter with a... Ghost spider." Yeah, just one of those days.

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this was "oh we projecting??"
> 
> Edit: so I changed it into the present tense because. i like it better like this? and i can actually write more!


End file.
